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"Potty time for the kitty." She sets him on
the floor and turns toward the window, leaving the front door open a few inches. Lifting a paper towel roll, she
peers through it at the house next door. Nothing exciting is happening, but she stares for few minutes anyway,
then goes about her daily routine as the cat goes about his.
Sweeping half-heartedly at the filth-covered floor in the kitchen, she hums to herself, an old Waylon Jennings
song. Her song is interrupted by a tentative knocking at the front door. She drops the broom to the floor and works
her way through the kitchen and living room in a lurching shamble. She does nothing to fix her appearance.
At the door is a well-dressed, neatly groomed young man in khakis and a sports coat. He stands, uncertain as to
whether or not he should open the door the rest of the way, but settles for adjusting the large paper bag he holds
in one arm. The rustling of the bag and the rustling of the newspapers on the floor are the only sound.
Remembering the cat, she pauses, bends gingerly, replaces him in his spot on the couch. Then, moving on to less
important things, she approaches the rather handsome young man at the door.
"Here to try and steal my money, are you? Think those kids in Africa are more important that an American?
Well, you won't take anything of mine." She begins to shut the door in his face and is foiled by stacks of
newspaper getting caught in the doorframe.
"No ma'am, I'm Pastor Bill, from the Baptist Church? I heard you had stopped your grocery deliveries, and
I thought. . .well. . .I have some food here. . . ." He trails off, intimidated by her glare.
"I am just fine, thank you." She snaps angrily, and spins away from the door, giving up on slamming it.
"I do not accept charity."
Later, she looks up from stroking the cat to see that the man had gone. Little surprise to her, as he clearly had
no time to waste on an old woman. "Probably out with some young hussy," she tells the cat.
Unimpressed, Mr. Whiskers stretches his neck out so she can scratch his ears. Her face, normally twisted in a mask
of anger and disgust, smooths. She smiles and obliges him, making sure she rubs his chin as well.
"Mr. Whiskers," She whispers confidentially, "You're the only one who really cares about me. You're.
. ." She pauses. "You're my only friend."
A car pulls noisily into the drive next door, and she gives the cat a last scratching before resuming her post
by the window, paper towel roll pressed to her eye. She remains there for several hours, never noticing the water
seeping through her slippers. Occasionally she mutters to herself about the depravity of the neighbors, the wastefulness
of their teenager daughters. Mostly she stays silent.
Later in the evening, she puts down her makeshift binoculars and goes to move the papers and shut the door. Seeing
the bag of food still on the porch, she shakes her head angrily. The bag continues to sit where it is as she wanders
back to the kitchen for dinner. There is a rustling in the cabinets, and then some banging.
The old woman returns to the living room empty-handed. There is no more cat food on the shelf. She sits for a while,
contemplating, stroking the cat. There is no sound but their breathing. She looks at the closed front door, her
hand begins to rise, and then settles back into her pudgy lap. Finally she nods firmly, having come to a conclusion.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers" She says quietly as she roots in the trash at her feet for a can with a sharp
edge. "But you see, I simply cannot accept charity." Mr. Whiskers says nothing, and she begins to speak
again, this time in a very different voice, almost sing-song "One must always chew precisely twenty times.
. . ."
For more, visit the Author's Web Site at: http://www.thursdaypass.blog.com
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